Name was Eva



City food is either shitty or expensive. For this reason, I will climb the stairs of Ujamaa Building in CBD to the rooftop. Stairs always, never the lift, this is my ritual. Then I will pull out my carefully packed lunch gazing at the city life below disinterestedly. Occasionally she will be there, awfully close to edge, like she is about to jump, splash her brains down thirty six floors to the hard pavement below.  She always looks ready to jump but never actually does. She does not have the guts to jump but one of these fine days she will jump, I am almost certain about that.



She also works in Ujamaa Building too, somewhere around floor six. I have no clue what she does or who she works for. I have never bothered to ask. This is Nairobi, you do not bring your village antics here. You only speak when you are spoken to, smile when you are smiled at and hug when arms are spread towards you. In Nairobi you mind your own business, always.


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Writer’s Last Log



Today is on a Monday, a busy day for people with dreams to chase and money to make. To me, it is just a usual day, not different to a Thursday or a Saturday. It has been the same for close to three years now and as we slowly draw closer to the end of the year, I find myself in a period of self-reflection and evaluation of choices I have made so far. Outside, young women and men the same age as me rush up and down to find their calling. Young men and women who will once be referred to as fathers and mothers by future generations. I have found myself constantly inspired by their energy and ravenous hope for the future. Despite the prevailing economic and social difficulties I have tried to remain optimistic and objective. It is hard not to in the face of such beauty of life. I have constantly reminded myself the needless purpose of self-pity and sadness and the magnificence that could be born from chaos and destruction.



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They Brought my Son Home in a Box

My son left this home walking on his two legs. He said that the village was no place for him, he had that tinge inside him and a curious light that glittered in his eyes when he spoke of the future before him. If it were up to me, my son would stay home. I would get him the village teacher with that tiny waist and that big behind to his wife, they would live in this compound, bear kids and inherit all this land I fought the white man to obtain.


I will say this and repeat it again until it gets into their thick heads, time for war was when we were chasing the white man away from our land. When we ate wild berries and slept in the forest, when the white man wore tiny faded grey shorts and carried big guns that made us urinate on our pants because they were ruthless as Satan. That was time for war. That was worth my brothers’ lives. That was a time when every tear had a varied reason to trickle down the fat cheeks of mothers. Children who went fatherless then knew it was for the course of liberation. But now, my son was brought to me in a box from is adventures, they told me that he had been a victim of noble course. That he had suddenly stop breathing in his line of duty to protect his country. I do not get it.


What do they know about war? Are they fighting for this land like we did? Have they been forced to work for the white man wives in his white kitchens? What do they know about loss that they claim they their course is noble? This heart in this box should still be beating. I am not sure if there is a heart here, they told me not to open the box because this is war and in war what we have lost is not exactly appealing to the eyes. Now I will never know if it really is my son inside this box.  But I hope it is his no longer beating heart in this box so that I can lay it to rest, pick my walking stick and walk myself to my grave too.


I have seen enough anguish that no man should bear. I lost everything that ever mattered when this heart in this box stopped beating. This land should be made a graveyard instead, all those days in the forest eating wild berries being hunted down like dogs finally got their match in misery. War war war! What do they know about war? Do they really expect to win? I will not be here for the results but mark my words, there is no winning in this war just short-term victories and then pain and anguish in double fold. They will not listen to me though, I am just an old man with no son and who keeps a pesticide by the bedside to sip when the torture proves unbearable.



Words: Dennis Peters

Photography: Mukiri Gitiri

[Mukrivity- Ingenious photography and text made comparative]

16th of JULY.

Tamal Magazine

Tamal Magazine

I have this problem of late where I cannot seem to write anything appropriately. It started when I was doing a Life and People story for Tamal Magazine, it was a story about a broken couple, where the girl pushes the guy twice in an squabble and the guy hits her three times but both of them claim that they are not counting. You know how these relationships arguments are, it is like a tag of war trying to pull yourself together, you are trying to put your point across but she is adamantly stubborn so try to do it the best you know how but then you apprehend you have to give up and consent that you are the one who is wrong. That it was your fault her friends are mad at her or that she was late for class. So often you have to be careful how you put your points across, never expect to win in such a situation. Fight your boys but not you girl, you will be left alone without even an inkling of what happened.

Far from that so I begin typing and then just about the time I am fully immersed in the story, a rogue thought crosses my mind and from then, my story is so done. It is like this one time I have been trying to write a biography about my granddad Cornelius Kuria, I swear I have written that article so many times each more than 1500 words but each time I reread and try to continue writing it again, my mind interprets it as shit and I delete everything and start a fresh. Even as I write this I hope you guys will have a chance to see it because I might delete just about the same time am coming to the terminus.

You see, writing is like seducing a lady when you know you are zero advantage. First you must convince her that she should look at you, then talk to you and lastly and most important, that she does not take you directly to the ‘zone’, with utterly no stops and you will have to spend your miserable days trying to sneak out from the very own hell of your own making. Words need seduction, a smooth guy who whispers softly on the ears, kisses gently on the neck and runs his figures in a gentleman kind of way across their back. Words will not look at you twice if you are the kind of guy who goes directly to grab ass. They will not even give you a platform to negotiate if you are not romantic. If words were ladies, they would be the kind that walks on six inch heels, with diamond earrings. These ladies are self-made millionaires and they walk in such heels just because they can. If you take such ladies out for dinner, you pull chairs for them and hold doors for them not because they cannot but because you imagine the torture of maintaining a smile with such shoes.

So I have really been belligerent in this conflict. It has made me absolutely uncomfortable, I have lost my charm, my pretty face with dimples and a nice moustache (Kate, I see you! Leave me alone). I am the hip hop rap god who did one hit song and disappeared into thin air downright vanished like the dinosaurs in the BCs. All I have to my history is a good nostalgic tale wondering when my good mojo is going to come back. Kind of like Kimani, the village idiot who once did a polygamous wedding that the villagers talked about for months but then Kimani grows to comfortable and attracted to the bottle that both his wives leave him and now he is seated in a therapy room with an old lady with spectacles hanging low. She will occasionally squint atop his glasses and ask Kimani what went wrong and Kimani will just have a good story about his wedding and the rest is shit. Alcohol is bad news.

These thoughts scare me. My ambition to publish a book before 23 still stands. So far I have written three and subsequently deleted them. I am not going to be the artist who gives the audience something he does not like. The first ambition for any art is self-fulfilment before it goes to the audience. A lady cannot leave the house if she does not like the way she looks on the mirror especially if single and 24. Twenty-four is a tough age for ladies but that is a story for another day. By the way scientists say at woman is most beautiful at 24 all the way to 28 but I just think the person who came up with that was most likely male and a perv because he was looking at the curves.

I do not know if most of you have had a fever, especially malaria related. If you are African then you definitely fall in with the flow, white kids probably won’t get this unless they are from the ghetto or Asia, Arabs are too hardened for such a girly sickness, the desert serves as their antibodies so they probably will not get it.

Typing there about Arabs reminded me of the first two novels I ever read. Captured by the Raiders, about a Gikuyu girl, kidnapped by Maasai cattle raiders I cannot remember the author and The Great Siege of Fort-Jesus, about the Portuguese and Omani Arabs. I adored those two books, I read and reread them more times than I have been to church in the last two years. They are still great books and I would reread them even now. Most people from the 90s have probably read them too I hope. I digress.

So you have a fever, you are cold, so cold like a fish beneath an iceberg in the Artic. You throw a blanket over yourself now you are sweating profusely like you were chilling in Kitchen #1 in hell. So you sit up and wonder if you are going to die, if this is the end of you because nothing appeals to your body, not the bed and definitely not your sheets. That by far tries to describe a writer’s situation when he has got nothing to write. It suicidal. It would not be surprising if on Twitter TL tomorrow people are talking…

@kenyan_254: You guys heard about @deepeters_?

@mk_enya: The blogger who decided to meet his maker?

@___njeri: I’m told he didn’t have a story to write up his blog so he hanged himself…

@kenyan_254: No shit!

@mk_enya: Hope he composes a story to tell Satan on his way there.

I do not understand why each person on Twitter insists on having underscores on their user names, mine I have a reason, @deepeters was taken so I had to put an underscore to @deepeters_. Plus there is no other name that could come from a combination of Dennis and Peters. That beside my point, it is not a good feeling having nothing to write. It is a distress that nobody understands but you. You do not expect your girlfriend to be kind to you because you have nothing to write and you are stressed, or your boys to understand that you slept through Friday evening and could not turn up for your usual Friday reminiscence because you were stressed. It does not work like that. It is unpleasant like that.

So, check out Tamal Magazine Issue #00001 one coming out soon or visit It is a whole different category of art, photography, writing and fashion among others. I hope we will all have a chance to read my book too before our time is up, right? Oh about the title, 16th of July, hahaha that is a totally different story unrelated with this.

Otherwise, how are you? Me I’m good, I mean I just wrote 1300 words about how I didn’t have nothing to write. I will see you around, yeah?

Dennis Peters

Dennis Peters